


The Wolf That Cried Raven

by septima_sum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Fanart, Humor, M/M, Raven!Stiles, Werecreature Stiles, although a happy ending is implied, but the first chapter works as a one shot, mentions of past depression and suicidal thoughts, this fic is not finished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4853759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septima_sum/pseuds/septima_sum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since they returned, Derek's sense of alertness is in overdrive, so it doesn't escape his notice when someone is staring at him. He exhales softly and instantly grows claws at the prickling sensation in the back of his head. Turns around ever so slowly, listens for heartbeats, scans the tranquil forest scenery for trespassers. There's no one. No hunter hiding behind the bushes, no steady heartbeat that betrays a human with ill intentions. </p><p>But there is a very small rhythm, a steady drumming high above him.</p><p>Derek looks up, and there he finds it: a black bird on the branch of an oak tree, eyes trained on him. It's a good deal too large to be a crow, but with its glossy dark feathers and shiny beak it's easy to mistake for one. As a werewolf, Derek considers himself to be on the top of the food chain; an apex predator that triggers terror in every lesser creature. There's something unsettling about the probing eye contact. He's not used to animals staring back at him that brazenly.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Derek grumbles and makes little shooing motions.</p><p>“Caw,” the raven says. It looks unimpressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  


The thing about ravens: they're nosy little shits. Troublemakers. They are wily, cunning, and have a vicious streak of humor; tricksters known for their relentless teasing. They are often fond of wolves, but rarely – if ever – is that affection returned.

  
  


*

  
  


It feels strange to be back in Beacon Hills again. There's something in the ground that calls to Derek and Laura, and something in them that listens, but this is also where their parents died, their siblings, uncles, aunts, and cousins. Derek feels restless, and Laura even more so. They take their time to reacquaint themselves with the territory. They spend long weeks hiking through the preserve, sometimes together, sometimes splitting up, looking for god-knows-what.

Since they returned, Derek's sense of alertness is in overdrive, so it doesn't escape his notice when someone is staring at him. He exhales softly and instantly grows claws at the prickling sensation in the back of his head. Turns around ever so slowly, listens for heartbeats, scans the tranquil forest scenery for trespassers. There's no one. No hunter hiding behind the bushes, no steady heartbeat that betrays a human with ill intentions. 

But there is a very small rhythm, a steady drumming high above him.

Derek looks up, and there he finds it: a black bird on the branch of an oak tree, eyes trained on him. It's a good deal too large to be a crow, but with its glossy dark feathers and shiny beak it's easy to mistake for one. As a werewolf, Derek considers himself to be on the top of the food chain; an apex predator that triggers terror in every lesser creature. There's something unsettling about the probing eye contact. He's not used to animals staring back at him that brazenly.

“Fuck off,” Derek grumbles and makes little shooing motions. 

“Caw,” the raven says. It looks unimpressed.

  
  


*

  
  


Whenever Derek is in the preserve the next days, he feels beady little eyes following his every movement. The raven observes his comings and goings with keen interest. Sometimes it hops from from branch to branch to follow Derek; at other times it soars over him like a shadow he can't cast off.

“There's a raven,” Derek informs Laura. “A raven that stalks me.” He hates the whine in his voice, but it's there nonetheless. 

“There are no ravens in the preserve, never have been.” Laura frowns. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Derek stresses. “It's a raven. Black, feathery, has a shiny beak. The little pest follows me around all day.”

To Derek's utter dismay, Laura's face splits into a wide grin at that admission, and to his further horror, she pinches his cheeks, which is exactly what their great-aunt Clarice used to do whenever they visited. Derek still has nightmares about her dust-dry marble cakes. “Looks like someone fell in love with your scowls, little bro!” 

“Ha ha,” he says, deadpan. “Your levity is misplaced.”

  
  


*

 

  
  


They find a nice house on the edge of the preserve, in comfortable distance to their next neighbors. It suits them just fine. Being werewolves, they're always left to straddle the shoreline between the human world and their more feral nature.

Derek is stuck with grocery duties for the foreseeable future, but at least that position has its perks. He closes the doors of the Camaro, picks up a grocery bag and angles for a donut, wriggling one of them out of its package. He nearly moans in anticipation of the artery clogger – it's filled with hazelnut crème and generously sprinkled with sugared almonds – but before he can take a bite, he has a face full of flapping wings. Derek sputters and drops the grocery bag, swinging his arms, but he's too slow: the raven thrusts himself in the air before his very eyes, and the donut is secured tightly in the grip of his talons. 

“You flying rat!”, Derek yells in its direction, and he's so enraged that his fangs drop.

“The raven stole my donut!” Derek tells Laura as he slams the front door shut, heavily lisping through his teeth. “That bird is ungodly!”

“It's only a _bird_ ,” Laura tries to reason with him.

“We're not talking about chicken hatchlings here, that raven is an agent of evil! I'm sure right in this moment it's concocting sinister schemes in its peanut-sized brain!”

Laura sighs deeply and keeps writing on her application.

  
  


*

  
  


The next time Derek leaves the house, an acorn gets chucked in his face.

Derek sputters and wipes his face, while the wretched bird with its impeccable aim circles over his head, keeping himself just out of reach. It's croaking in a way that sounds suspiciously gleeful.

Derek's control snaps with a mute little _twing_ , just like that. He's opens his mouth wide and releases a roar so great it seems to shake the foundation of the forest. 

The raven chucks another acorn at him. 

It hits Derek right between the eyes.

  
  


*

  
  


Derek may or may not indulge in increasingly violent daydreams about accidents that could befall the foul creature.

“You're not taking this threat seriously enough,” he whines at Laura.

“Make peace with your little bird friend,” Laura tells him sternly, in her best elementary teacher voice.

Derek crosses his arms in front of his chest, feeling profoundly wronged and awfully petulant about it. “Never. That airborne bully was probably hatched in hell.”

  
  


*

  
  


He's been going about this all wrong. The first rule: know your enemy.

Derek begins to scour the internet for information, reading everything about ravens he can find (mostly to figure out out how to repel the damn creatures). The result isn't quite what he expected. He learns that ravens and wolves often work together in the wild. Ravens follow wolves to scavenge on their kills, bent on stealing a significant portion of them – which sounds about right, considering the donut theft – but ravens also alert wolves to prey that's easy to kill, like sick deer, pointing them in the right direction. The birds recognize the chorus of howling that indicates the beginning of a wolf hunt, but in turn the wolves have also learned to understand some raven vocalizations. In a rare display of interspecies communication, some wolf howls are even met with raven calls, and some raven calls with wolf howls. Since ravens can oversee a large area, they're known to alert wolves to dangers the wolves aren’t yet aware of, serving as their extra eyes and ears. So close is the relationship between the two species that the Inuit call the raven the _wolf-bird_ , and in Norse mythology, Odin is flanked by a pair of ravens and a pair of wolves. In the stories of the Tlingit tribe, ravens are form-changing tricksters that outwit their canine opponents. It's probably not too far from the truth. Ravens are known to tease both adult wolfs and cubs, playing with them for no other reason than their own amusement. 

His internet search leaves Derek more baffled than he was before. Ravens sound like bullies, alright. But apparently they're not... all bad. 

Harrumphing in annoyance, Derek closes every tab. He still doesn't feel charitable towards his insistent shadow. He knows evil when he sees evil.

  
  


*

  
  


The lake is something that Derek always missed in New York. It's hidden in the heart of the preserve, far away from the hiking trails, and the sight alone is enough to ease the knots of worry in Derek's chest. He's always loved swimming in the crystal-clear water, especially at dawn when the forest is just waking up. This time is no exception. Derek enjoys the way the cool water parts around him, the way it caresses his naked form with each stroke. When he rises from the lake, he is bathed in morning sunlight, and rivulets of water glide over the planes of his muscles, leaving trails of glittering beads in their wake. Derek groans and stretches himself.

And stares straight at the raven when he turns towards the shore of pebbles. The bird is perched on a branch over the waterline and has opens its beak in what appears to be shock. For a moment, the only sound is the wind rustling through brittle leaves. Then the bird launches itself into the air, fluttering wildly and hitting a tree in its mad bid to escape. A loud screech follows. Derek watches in bewilderment as the raven nearly tumbles to the ground before it saves itself with an acrobatic somersault and gains height again, flying away as fast as its wings will allow.

“Are you kidding me,” Derek says. “ _That's_ what it takes?”

And sure enough, the raven disappears after that little episode. 

Derek feels slightly insulted, truth to be told.

  
  


*

  
  


Slowly, the dust begins to settle.

Beacon Hills might not yet be home again, but Derek isn't surprised anymore in the morning, the first split second he wakes up. There are some neighbors he regularly chats with, there are routines that he and Laura carve into their lives, each day a bit deeper. Their scent has begun to permeate the house, the soothing mingle of _pack scent_ , of safety. Laura gets a job at a local elementary school, putting her teacher degree to good use. Derek starts working at a local bar. He never went to college, never had the nerves for it. Their parents set up college funds for all of them, and Derek knows they wanted him to do something else with his life than wash glasses and pour gin, but whatever chances he had to steer his life in a different direction are long gone now. Derek might scowl too much to be a good bartender, but apparently disinterest and bulging biceps muscles work like a siren song on some bar-goers. He's subjected to pick-up lines all night long, and yet only one in a dozen manages to wheedle a minuscule smile out of him. He's pretty sure there's a betting pool on who's the first to sweet-talk him into a quickie. 

One guy in particular (grungy-looking, bleached hair, _call me Zac_ ) is constantly around. Zac greets Derek with a cheery, _'hello sunshine!'_ every evening, and seems entirely undeterred by the stone wall of reaction that endearment triggers. In terms of persistence, he is probably the probably the worst offender of the lot, although he isn't the weirdest.

The weirdest wanders in one evening, hands buried deep in the pockets of his red hoodie. He seems strangely familiar to Derek, even though nothing about the pale, mole-dotted skin, the upturned nose or amber eyes rings a bell. Derek is sure he wouldn't have forgotten his face. And yet... 

There's something about him.

The guy looks at Derek with a nervous, apprehensive sort of energy; like Derek might growl and bite if he comes within touching distance. Nevertheless, he manages to place himself on a bar stool, clears his throat awkwardly, and then says with a nonchalance that his heartbeat immediately belies, “Hey Derek. One lager?” 

Derek's brows furrow on their own accord, and then realization hits him a moment later. “How do you know my name?” 

The guy startles visibly. “Uh! Well, your... name tag.” 

“I'm not wearing a name tag.” Derek points to the figure-hugging black V-neck he's currently wearing, which is at least two sizes too small for him and most likely responsible for the landslide of tips he's already earned that evening. It's one of his typical 'make it rain' outfits, and there are no name tags in sight. 

“...oh yes, I see that. But the one you wore the other day.” 

“I don't wear name tags, at all. Ever.” 

“Ha,” the guy says, rubbing the back of his head. “Funny. Then, um. A co-worker must have mentioned your name.” 

Derek taps his chin, as if he's earnestly considering the possibility. “Could be.” 

The guy deflates in relief. “Yeah, of course, right, _so stupid-”_

“-if not for the fact that you're here for the first time.” 

“What? No! I'm not! How would you know?” the guy sputters, eyes going wide and panicked. Even more tellingly, his heartbeat has begun to rabbit wildly in his chest. Derek hears it as loud and clear as a drum solo. 

“I have an infallible memory for faces,” Derek says, even though he hasn't. What he has is an infallible memory for scents, but it's not like he can disclose that fact. 

The guy slinks off the bar stool, mumbling something mostly unintelligible that contains the words, _uuuuh okay, I'm going._

Derek watches his retreating form and scrunches up his nose. The guy leaves a stench of intense anxiety behind, as well as clammy spots on the counter, right where his palms were placed. 

It's a bad sign. 

One that makes Derek's gut clench in the worst way. 

When he comes home that night, he seeks out Laura and wakes her gently, and he tells her with a heavy heart what he suspects just happened. 

__

  
  


*

  
  


Laura was so pedantic, so careful. They asked around, back in New York. Called in favors. Hell, they spent an entire month scoping out Beacon Hills and the surrounding areas, including the widespread wilderness of the preserve, just to make _absolutely_ sure that the area is as hunter-free as they presumed. Beacon Hills appears to be scorched earth for supernatural creatures, and subsequently it has been classified a poor hunting ground.

There are still price tags attached to their names. Hunters without morals, without code, out to get them. The Hale family has a long history. They used to be pillars of the werewolf community. Standing out always comes with a risk, and the smart hunters destroy the supporting elements to watch the rest of the structure crumble.

Laura takes his fears very seriously indeed, but no matter how much they look around, the guy with the red hoodie is nowhere to be seen again.

What follows is a stressful, extraordinarily shitty week. 

At work, Zac still turns up every evening and tries to pester a date out of Derek. Zac's temper grows shorter as his inquiries turn more personal, more intrusive, but he still tips so excessively well that Derek can't bring himself to blacklist him, as much as that spinelessness pains him. 

Laura doesn't fare much better. She helps to organize an open door event at her school and has to meet a brigade of parents who are already much too concerned for the academic future of their kids. One frazzled-looking woman even tries to bribe Laura with freshly baked cookies, although they taste so bad that Laura almost gets ill on the spot. 

“I had to lie through my teeth,” she tells Derek and musters up a weak grin. “Worse than Aunt Clarice's sugar-free organic marble cakes.”

Derek winces in sympathy. “Damn. And here I though that's impossible.”

  
  


*

  
  


It happens when Derek is at the supermarket.

His bond to Laura – a fixture in his life, a steady source of _warmth_ and _belonging_ – is there one moment, like it's always been, and the next moment it flickers violently and then mutes.

Derek's heart stops. He releases the grip on the glass of tomato sauce he was holding, and it falls to the floor and breaks with a loud crash. Derek numbly watches chunks of tomatoes flying everywhere, red sauce spreading in each direction. 

He feels violently ill. 

A store manager tries to stop him when he crashes through the throng of other customers, and there are yells and curses as he shoulder-checks his way outside, but he doesn't hear anything, doesn't care. He feels helplessly untethered, cut loose from his anchor, and now he's so lightweight he could blow away with the next gust of wind, just like that. 

He drives home on autopilot, gasping in distress when he finds their front door wide open, the furniture in the living room trashed, and the scent of wolfsbane heavy in the air. He tracks the scent as long as he can, but it dissipates quickly once he's doubled back to the driveway. 

Derek is so distraught it takes him a moment to notice the insistent squawking. His old tormentor is back again, erratically circling over Derek's head.

“Go away,” he says softly, feeling lost and broken. 

But the raven refuses to leave and doesn't stop cawing, flying in direction of the street for a short moment before turning on the spot, gaze boring into Derek's. It repeats the odd little dance again and again. 

_Sometimes ravens lead wolves to their prey._

Derek's mouth falls open. “You want me to … follow you?” 

The bird cries again. Maybe Derek is going out of his mind, but he thinks it sounds beseechingly, urgently.

He has nothing to lose, has he?

Derek follows the raven, first haltingly, then with more conviction. It flies as fast as Derek can run, and leads him a few miles around the perimeter of the preserve, to a nondescript, abandoned looking house in the middle of nowhere. There are two heartbeats inside; none of them Laura's. 

But one still sounds familiar. 

Derek rips the door open with so much force it falls from its hinges and then he _roars_ , shocking Zac and an unfamiliar woman. Zac lost his grunge look but acquired an arsenal a weapons; apparently he's more interesting in staking Derek than in boning him. The woman would look harmless in any other setting, if she weren't just pressing a towel on Laura's face. His sister is lying on a cot and much too still, too quiet.

It's clear that Derek caught them off guard, and the ensuing fight is quick and bloody. The raven even joins in. His massive beak is a more formidable weapon than Derek ever would have guessed.

The hunters die; they have to.

Afterwards, Derek hurries over to Laura and rips the towel from her face, wincing at the searing pain that causes. The fabric is soggy and infused with what appears to be highly potent wolfsbane. It's not wonder he didn't hear Laura's heartbeat when he was outside. It's so slow and weak it's almost indistinguishable from the the background noises. He cleans her face with tap water as good as he can and sobs quietly when he hears her heartbeat grow steadier, grow stronger, when the bond between them flickers back to life. 

“How did you find me?” Laura croaks as she opens her eyes. 

“I had help,” Derek says, and cradles her in his arms, relief flooding him so intensely he almost feels dizzy. He hasn't lost her; _not this time_. But when he nods towards the raven, the bird is gone. There's a naked young man in his stead, and Derek would feel alarmed if he didn't recognize the moles and soft brown hair. 

“Hey,” the guy says sheepishly, raising a hand for a half-aborted wave. “I'm Stiles.”

“Huh,” Laura says, wonder spreading over her features. “That's your little stalker?”

“Yeah,” Derek replies hoarsely.

  
  


*

  
  


Strange events unfurl in the preserve on the night of the next full moon, far from prying human eyes. Three long forms melt away into the shadows of the underbrush, and then there are two wolves trotting around. They grapple with each other for fun and then lower their muzzles to the forest flood, avidly tracking scent trails through the terrain. Wherever the wolves go, a charcoal shadow follows them. It skillfully navigates through the trees and occasionally darts down to capture one of the wolves' tails by the tip, yanking on it none too gently, which results in loud growls from the wolf in question and makes the shadow emit a series of _cr-r-r-ruck_ sounds that sound like gleeful laughter.

 

  
  


[ ](http://postimage.org/)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, depending on who you ask, ravens and wolves are either best buddies out in the wild or ravens are terrible feathered bullies and someone should stage an intervention. Researcher David Mech writes that wolves and ravens 'have reached an adjustment in their relationships such that each creature is rewarded in some way by the presence of the other, and that each is fully aware of the other’s capabilities.' Be that as it may, there's also a theory that wolves hunt in packs not get bigger game – anything that's smaller than an elk a single wolf can kill – but to minimize what they'll lose to the ravens. The more you know!
> 
> In sum: ravens and wolves go together like toast and butter. Ravens are highly intelligent, but sort of morally questionable, and inevitably they made me think of Stiles. Consider this fic my official petition to see more raven!Stiles.
> 
> I planned to do a little drawing for each paragraph, by the way, but I discovered that's a lot of effort (who knew??) and I'm so lazy I peaced out after a single picture. :-/
> 
>  **11/21/16: This fic is probably best considered finished at this point.** I tried to expand on the universe (see chapter 2), but I think I changed the tone too drastically and couldn't translate the premise into a longer, more detailed story. **As a result this fic will remain permanently unfinished,** there will be no third chapter (at least no actual continuation, although I'm going to post a plot outline). I apologize to everyone who was waiting for me to finish this story. Thanks for your encouragement and love!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks go to my wonderful beta-reader, [itsamootpoint](http://itsamootpoint.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Also, [halevneck](http://halevneck.tumblr.com/) was so kind to translate the Polish dialogue for me. Thank you!

  
  
Stiles becomes a fixture in their life after that, to the point that Derek doesn't even blink when he returns home and finds Stiles already there, raiding through the fridge or lounging in the living room.

“You do know you have your own Netflix account?” Derek points out mildly when he finds Stiles parked on the couch again, not quite able to stop himself. “It's not like you _have_ to use ours.”

“But I don't have this ultra-comfy couch, do I?” Stiles spreads out his arms and then pats the spot next to him, motioning to Derek to sit down. “And I don't have _you_ at home. Or Laura. You're like big rumbling cushions. Granted, as far as cushions go you're pretty hairy, and it's not like the faint odor of wet dog is your strongest selling point, but you do make up for it with your winning personalities.”

“Uh huh. Do we now?” Derek asks.

“Yes. You're patient and considerate. Kind. Warm-hearted. Outdoorsy. And your cheekbones! Your cheekbones could cut glass. Or temper steel. Or do wood work. Or, like, a combination of all three. I think this metaphor went awry somewhere... The point is, you won the genetic lottery! Is that a byproduct of being a werewolf? Because I feel I got shafted here.”

Derek rolls his eyes, fondly. They're not quite in facepalm territory yet, but it’s only a matter of time if Stiles keeps talking. An ETA of fifty seconds is probably too generous an estimation. “I see,” he interrupts Stiles' budding monologue. “And what are the benefits of being graced with _your_ presence?”

“ _Well_ ,” Stiles says with a lengthy drawl, giving the word a few extra syllables. “I made popcorn.”

It's true.

A bowl of buttery, salted, perfectly crunchy-looking popcorn sits innocently on the coffee table.

Derek huffs, but he still sits on the couch. He grumbles and mumbles, as he always does, but as always he's sure they both know it's just for show. And just like that, Stiles ropes him in, and they watch a few episodes of _Daredevil_. Sitting on the couch slowly devolves into slouching on the couch and when that becomes too much of an effort, they end up lying on their backs, the popcorn bowl resting on Stiles' belly. Laura clearly invested wisely when she spent the big bucks on a pack-sized monster couch.

It's in the mid of the third episode that Laura comes home from her dance class. She's exerted but loose-limbed, a light rhythm still in her feet, and she gets rid of her coat with a dramatic turn and a half-twirl. She dances a few steps towards the kitchen, before she resolves into a fit of giggles, clearly delighted with her own silliness.

“Tango?” Derek asks.

“The Argentine tango, yes!” she says. “The one and only. Stiles? You're here _again?_ ” She acts annoyed, albeit not very successfully. She has immediately taken a liking to the wereraven, in both his avian and his human form, and Stiles wholly reciprocates the feeling. Derek is still not decided on whether that's a blessing or a curse.

Laura tuts at Stiles. “You should start paying rent.”

“I pay you with my good looks and charming presence. Not to mention my witty observations about life and my never-ending knowledge of TV tropes!”

“I'd rather you pay me in dollars!”

“Co to są dolary? Nie rozumiem!”, Stiles exclaims, waving a hand at them in an undefined gesture.

“Tell him to stop switching to Polish!” Laura orders Derek.

Derek sighs, put upon. “Nie można nagle zaczynać mówić w innym języku, bo ci tak pasuje. To niegrzeczne.”

“ _You_ speak Polish?” Stiles says and startles upright, nearly displacing the popcorn bowl on his belly before he can grip it in a last-minute rescue operation. A few kernels bounce away from their buttered brethren and land on the couch.

Derek knows he looks smug as hell. “Tak, troszeczkę,” he drawls.

Stiles stutters. “So every time I muttered Polish curse words at your furry asses...”

“I learned something new.”

Stiles is clearly in shock. Dumbfounded disbelief should look unattractive on him, as on any other person, but with Stiles' lips looking as they do – soft and kissable, plush and pink – all Derek feels is a shot of heat deep in the pit of his stomach. He shifts his weight, feeling unsettled.

“You'd never know it because he's as talkative as a box of boulders, but Derek inhales languages like crazy,” Laura says, pride glowing in her words. “He won so many prizes at school! We had like dozens of pictures all over our kitchen, of Derek winning something and trying not to smile because he was afraid of exposing his bunny teeth.” She grins at her brother fondly, who glares back with much less affection.

“Bunny teeth?” Stiles asks and scrutinizes Derek. “Seriously?”

“Yes”, Derek grumbles and drags his tongue over his front teeth. “My incisors are really pronounced.”

“Dude, if _you're_ self-conscious about your looks, there's no hope for the rest of humankind! You're goddamn gorgeous.” Stiles looks as if the very notion of Derek having self-doubts offends him.

Derek smiles, ducking his head in helpless embarrassment. Stiles says it with so much conviction, as if he's stating irrefutable facts. Maybe he's just confident in his sexual orientation, not afraid to compliment another guy's looks, and yet Derek wonders, as he has done before, whether Stiles is a hundred percent straight. It's usually easy for werewolves to sniff out these facts, but infuriatingly, Stiles can be more of a sphinx than a raven, more riddles than answers. It annoys Derek more than it should, it's like... like he suddenly has blind spots in his vision.

“What other languages can you speak?” Stiles asks, eyeing him with interest.

“Uh, Spanish. French. Some Korean. I just started learning Mandarin before...” Derek clears his throat. “...we moved to New York.”

“He's also fluent in Portuguese,” Laura says. “I can understand it alright, but talking? No way in hell.” When she notices Stiles' confusion, she adds, “our dad was from Brazil. He moved here as a teenager, but his family moved around a lot before that. Derek inherited his gift for languages, actually. Nana always said that dad used to pick up languages like other kids pick up the flu. He had children's books from all over the world. Fables, fairy tales, anything vaguely folkloristic. He made us guess which parts were true and which parts weren't.”

Derek huffs, releasing a small sound halfway between a laugh and something more wistful. “Those were actually history lessons in disguise. Do you remember the stories about the Estonian werewolf trials?”

“How could I forget!” Laura shudders exaggeratedly. “Ugly stuff. Do you remember the stories about the Boitatá?”

“Yep.” Biting back on a smile, Derek tells Stiles, “that's a giant headless snake that crawls over open fields at night and hunts for prey. It only eats its victim's eyes.”

“Apparently that thing actually exists and is native to some parts of South America,” Laura adds helpfully.

“Ughh,” Stiles says. “Are you sure that's a children's story?”

“Pretty sure it's not,” Derek says dryly. “But the way dad used to tell it...”

“Did he give you the disneyfied version?”

Laura sighs. “He was a quiet guy. Really a man of few words, but not in a stoic or distant way. He was so affectionate with us, always attentive... god, do you remember the way he used to gather us around when he told a story? We had this big, comfy rug in front of the fireplace. Cora would be in his lap – or Philip, or one of our younger cousins – and everyone else would lie or sit close-by, bundled in blankets, and he just... became this whole different person when he told a story. Mom couldn't tell a story at all, but dad was like a magician. He captivated the imagination of a small horde of hyperactive werewolf children, and easily at that. Can you believe you could hear a pin drop when he paused? We hung on his every word.”

Laura trails off. The silence in the wake of her words has a crushing lead weight, making it suddenly hard to breathe, hard to swallow. It's been nine years since the fire. Almost ten, to the day. Derek is pretty sure Stiles is aware what happened. Everyone knows about it, and Stiles is more curious than most – in fact, it's hard to imagine a more curious creature at all, come to think of it. It’s telling how Stiles never asks them about their family, never initiates a conversation about them.

“Sorry for making you guys remember,” Stiles says quietly, confirming Derek's hunch. “I actually have a little something I brought along for you, since, you know, _I've been accused of being a freeloader on multiple occasions._ ” 

Derek furrows his brows in concentration, taking deep whiffs. “Chocolate cookies?”

“Exactly!”

Laura makes a face, but Stiles doesn't let her get away with it. “No, no, no. I know you're the big scary alpha and everything, but you'll eat cookies and you'll love them. Hunter's won't ruin that for you. I won't stand for it!”

That announcement wrestles a little smile out of Laura, destroying her formerly grim expression. “Alright. You're the boss.”

“I doubt that,” Stiles says, but they end up eating cookies and huddle together on the big couch, snarking over trashy reality TV. It's blissfully relaxing. Something in Derek eases as at the close proximity and shared body heat, at the trifold sound of their heartbeats, at the way their scents intertwine so seamlessly, so easily. Werewolves have much looser boundaries than humans do, but Derek had no idea how Stiles as a wereraven would cope with that. So far he's not only taking it in a stride, but welcoming it with open arms.

Derek smiles automatically, unable to stifle the warm feeling blooming in his chest, even as he's afraid to examine its source too closely. Of all the destructive forces he's experienced in his lifetime – grief and anger, depression and self-loathing – hope has always been the most dangerous one.  
  


*

The anniversary is hard for them.

Each day, Derek wakes up and tries not to think about it – tries not to think of _then_ , when they still had a family, a pack, when they still had no idea how cruel the world could be. Derek can't bear the memories. It's like looking through the dim, dull glass of a snow globe and seeing the plastic figurines inside. All perfectly painted. Their poses frozen forever, their happy smiles weathering every storm. Some days it works. Some days, life goes on and he's okay with that. Other days…other days drag on forever and leave Derek as weary and broken as if he lived three lifetimes.

When the anniversary rolls around, forgetting is not an option.

The day is a sucker punch to the solar plexus, and knowing that in advance doesn't prepare Derek or Laura in the slightest.

They hardly speak that morning. They prepare breakfast with quick, efficient movements. They pack two backpacks. Slip into weatherproof hiking clothes.

And then they're out.

It's a clear winter morning; the air is so frigid that they produce puffy little clouds with each exhale of air.

There's no path that guides their way. The route they take through stretches of thick underbrush, over rocky terrain, across streams and fields, would seem entirely random to an observer.

The Hales have lived in the area around Beacon Hills before the city was even founded. One of their ancestors, Roderick Lewis Hale, owned a substantial amount of land and gifted it to the growing community upon his death, on the condition that it be made a nature preserve and that living there would be permitted only for his direct descendants. That gesture had been a stroke of genius, really. It protected the old-growth forest, gave the Hales a benevolent reputation, and guaranteed his family and pack a home for generations to come.

There are still some plots of land within the preserve that the Hale family owns, like the premises their old house is built on. Or the private burial site of their family.

Even at a pace that few humans can match, it takes Derek and Laura several hours to reach the graveyard of the Hale family. It's situated on a mountain slope, nestled into the embrace of century-old trees. Their ancestors had been a suspicious lot. In times past, werewolf graves were often excavated; sometimes by hunters, sometimes by witches who sought ingredients for their rituals. From skin to claws, bones to teeth: the various body parts of werewolves were coveted items for those who dabbled in the darker arts. As a result, the founding generation of Hales took great care to make the burial site as hard to reach as possible. Laura suspects that emissaries have been involved in the safe-keeping as well and worked spells that would reduce the chance of unwitting or not-so-unwitting trespassers finding their way over.

They reach the graveyard at noon, when a dense cluster of trees opens up to a clearing so bright they have to raise their hands to shield their eyes from the sun. The clearing is enclosed by the forest on all sides except one, where rocky cliffs serve as a natural barrier. Derek and Laura can see the preserve stretch for miles and miles, the hills of the forest rising and falling until they meet the crisp blue line of the horizon.

It's a beautiful place. There's a sense of calmness that lingers in the clearing, a serenity that's hard to find elsewhere.

Derek and Laura are used to the sounds of the forest quietening around them. Most humans trample through forest as if they're bent on announcing their presence to every single creature within, but even if werewolves are lighter on their feet, animals sense the second skin they wear under their human one, the beast that'll always be there. They're infinitely more adept than humans, whose blunt senses make them easy to misguide. Animals scurry away, break into a screeching flight, or press deeper into their hiding places when they notice them. Werewolves are used to the forest becoming deceptively still when they enter it. Even so, there's something absolute and extraordinary about the quietness of the clearing. The only sound comes from the wind that brushes through the forest and orchestrates a soft melody by swaying brittle branches back and forth.

There are more than fifty graves; generations of Hales are buried here. The gravestones are all plain, clear-cut lines on rough stones, bearing nothing more than the names and dates. Even the graves of the former alphas don't sport anything more prestigious than the Greek letter _alpha_ in brass. Most werewolves aren't big on statues, ornaments or other materialistic gestures, viewing them as typically human and rooted in the crippling fear of the own life being insignificant and wasted. Werewolves know that their legacy lives on in the blood of their kin. Being part of the pack means never being forgotten.

Derek and Laura spend the day at the graveyard, allowing themselves to sink into their grief. Occasionally, they share anecdotes. Even the things that used to drive them up the wall are now fodder for fond memories, like Cora's extended eavesdropping phase or the way Philip could wheedle himself out of every tight spot on the virtue of being the youngest child and the only human one. It had been infuriating when they were little, but Derek realizes in hindsight that Philip was not nearly as fortunate as he'd believed; his brother was shielded from many activities that he and his sisters never had been banned from. Given that some falls wouldn't cause more than fleeting discomfort to a werewolf kid but could break a human's neck in a heartbeat, it had been a reasonable move by his parents. Still, it couldn't have been easy for Philip.

Derek had grown up with a large family. His grandparents had lived with them. His uncle Peter, along with his human wife and three kids, had also lived in the their house. It hadn’t been that unusal of an arrangement. Werewolf families often seek out some measure of isolation, since werekids don't blend in well with the general society. Putting werekids into kindergarten, when they only have limited control over their shifting abilities and sprout fangs and claws at the slightest frustration or excitement, is an unmitigated recipe for disaster. All of them were home-schooled until high school. Living together had been half instinct, half necessity.

The night of the fire...

Derek's memories have an unreal quality to them. Dreamlike. As if he didn't believe his own eyes, or as if his mind couldn't comprehend what his eyes saw.

Derek had slept at a friend's house after a gaming marathon, and he'd been ripped from his dreams by the sensation of _wrongness_ , and the panic had set in right after that. Pack bonds are hard to explain to people who have never experienced them. They're hardly noticeable most of the time – kind of like the own heartbeat, which would be as loud as a jackhammer if the sound wasn't continuously blocked out by the brain. Werewolves are born into their bonds and grow up with them, hardly noticing their background presence, the measure of _warmth_ and _safety_ they provide. It's only when the bonds are disrupted that the werewolves grow keenly aware of them.

Derek remembers his friend's mother laying a shaking hand on his shoulder. _There's been a fire at your house._

He remembers running through the forest barefoot, wearing nothing more than boxers and a T-shirt.

He remembers the sky above the preserve – the brownish, reddish tint to it.

Long before he reached his home, he'd seen the light that filtered through the trees, heard the chaos of cars, of people barking orders – and above that, beyond that, the roar of something big and terrible. The house was still burning. It was engulfed in a dome of flame and smoke. Derek doubled over when he reached it; it felt as if every molecule of oxygen was sucked from his lungs. He was suddenly unable to breathe, coughing and wheezing through his teary, blurred vision.

Someone ushered him into an ambulance.

Laura arrived in a frantic hurry at the hospital; she'd been away at college. Her eyes flickered red when she saw Derek, and the direct proof of the power transfer made them both break down. They waited the whole night to see if Peter pulled through. Their uncle had come home late from a business trip and been the first one to discover the catastrophe. He'd tried to save the others.

When they were taken to the police station, the sheriff told them what they already knew: save for Peter, they had all died. He tried to be gentle about his words, but no one could gift-wrap such a message, and the way he looked at them, he was fully aware of that. A deputy arranged a place to stay for them. There was a foster family that was willing to take them in, for the time being. Laura tried to decline the offer. It was a fruitless effort.

It was a small comfort, at least, that their family died of smoke inhalation and not burn wounds. The fire had built rapidly and produced smoke full of carbon monoxide and toxic particles. It had been ruled arson, yet the perpetrators had never been caught. Not that it mattered. Derek and Laura knew that Kate Argent was behind it, the heir apparent of the Argent dynasty; she was a skilled hunter and veritable psychopath. (Well, _and_ a statutory rapist). A regular fire wouldn't have been that effective. Intoxication is hardly a match for the werewolf healing factor; at the very least, their mother should have survived longer than she did. But that was the trick, wasn't it? Huge quantities of dried wolfsbane had been burned alongside other kindling substances. Their family hadn't stood a chance.

The fire is a chasm that divides Derek's life into a clear _before_ and _after_.

It happened when Derek was just a few days shy of his seventeenth birthday. Laura applied for his legal guardianship after that. Then they moved to New York. They couldn't stand being in Beacon Hills anymore, where everyone knew them but no one knew the full story, where they couldn't go anywhere without hearing people whisper among themselves. _Poor bastards. Such a tragedy. He looks like a psychopath._ The first years in New York were so rough Derek prefers not to think about them at all; they're completely lost and wasted, as far as he's concerned. The raw, anguished pain in the weeks after the fire was nothing compared to what came later, when depression had a suffocating choke grip on him. _Nothing._ The guilt nearly killed Derek. And not in a figurative sense, either.

 _If I had never been born_ , he'd thought.

_If I had never trusted Kate._

_If had been smarter._

It took years and countless therapy sessions to deal with the guilt, to come to terms with the things Kate had done to him and to his family. It's still a work in progress, and it will probably always stay that way. Some days are better than others. Derek is sure of one thing though: he would have been lost without Laura. For all that she micromanaged the shit out of him and they fought hundreds of times, she was the one thing that kept him going when the darkness pressed in from all directions. And he suspects the reverse is also true. Laura always had an alpha spark, always had something more to her. She's not only level-headed and calm under duress, she's someone people instinctively like and look up to. A born leader. Someone with steel in her spine.

And yet.

Laura is the sort of person who needs a purpose. If there's a job that needs to be done, if there's a person who needs to be looked after, Laura will be there and everyone can rest easy that she'll get shit done. That's one of her strengths and at the same time her biggest Achilles’ heel. Because if she is all by herself? Alone and no one needs her? No. She wouldn't have coped with that well.

Derek thinks Laura can be proud how they managed to pull through. In werewolf cycles, a two-person pack is a joke; some wolves would even dispute that they're a pack at all. But they're stable. Laura can be confident in her alpha powers, as weak as they are. And they've carried on with their life, regained some resemblance of normalcy.

He touches the stone on his mother's grave, which is rough and cool under his fingertips. It's difficult not to feel guilty. For years now, he has been picking up the pieces of his broken life and whenever he succeeds...the blissful amnesia of a smile here and there, a laugh now and then...it feels like betrayal all over again. He doesn't deserve to be _happy_ ; to _forget_ them; to be free of that weight.

 _Some days you'll step forward, some days you'll step back_ , his therapist in New York had said. _And that's okay. Don't expect any different, any easier: each day is a fight. That might sound exhausting, and I'm not going to misguide you, it is. But you can also consider it a comfort. Each day is a fresh start._

Derek sighs and exhales deeply. Today he'll allow himself to feel this guilty, this miserable.

And tomorrow, he won't.  
  


*

_The Barn Swallow_ is packed. The bar is all warm, glossy wood and maroon furniture. There are neon signs and travel souvenirs on the walls, which range from the classically exotic to the straight-up perplexing. It's built to be cozy. His boss Kaja intended the bar to be an inclusive place where everyone would feel welcome, but in reality this concept translates into _that gay bar on Marshall Street_. However, its popularity can't be argued. There aren't many LGBTQIA-friendly venues around Beacon Hills, so they have their fair share of patrons, and Derek has even begun to get friendly with some of them. Not that he has many opportunities for small talk today. A coworker just called in sick, they're severely understaffed, and _everyone_ is trying to get his attention. Some assholes think they'll get served faster if they yell at him, or wave their hands, or god fucking beware, snap their fingers in his face, which makes Derek wish he could shift and rip their arms off.

He doesn't do that. He was raised better.

He does, however, glower the jerks into submission. It's not particularly hard for him. Stiles complains that Derek's eyebrows give him an unfair advantage in the threat department, but since he's compiling a compendium on _Derek Speak_ , the 'elusive language of supra- and inter-eyebrow communication,' he doesn't appear to mind too much.

The most annoying patrons aren't the rude ones, or the ones who hit on Derek like hook-ups are going out of style, it's the _adventure seekers_. A group of frat boys occupy a couple of tables, and it's clear that they're tourists who've come to observe a spectacle. There are frequent glances at a lesbian couple, like they guys can't believe they can actually witness two cute ladies being all over each other. They get more wide-eyed still when they observe guys giving each other so much as a peck, and they're downright obnoxious about the few trans and genderfluid patrons that are present ( _'woah, dude, is that a dude in a dress?'_ ). If they're not actively ogling others, they talk raucously about football and their latest lady conquests. Derek wouldn't be surprised if they'd be happy to get hit on, just so they could correct the unfortunate soul that they're actually _super into pussy_. That kind of insecurity is endlessly tiring for everyone involved. Derek remembers struggling with the mentality; even with a supportive family around, it had been hard to come to terms with his sexual orientation. Nobody had expected the captain of the basketball team to be bisexual.

When the doors open again, Derek looks up sharply. He would recognize that heartbeat anywhere. And sure enough, there's Stiles. He gives Derek a little wave and then tries to reach the counter; a man and a woman trail after him like obedient ducklings. Since the bar is so packed, it's slow going for them. Derek glances over several times, transfixed by the sight, by the way Stiles moves his hips to slide between the tables. He has broad shoulders and a narrow waist, his physique all slim but trim, and Derek has seen him shift often enough to know that his skin is pale and mole-dotted all over. Really. _All over_. The constellation of moles on his ass is unfairly adorable. How the hell is Derek supposed to live with that knowledge?

He doesn't have the faintest clue.

“Hey, sourwolf,” Stiles says when he's finally reached the counter. He’s beaming. Radiating happiness. His eyes positively _sparkle_. It's hard to look away, but fortunately Derek doesn't have to; introductions are in order. Stiles turns towards his companions. “This here is Scott, my best friend since kindergarten. And this is my friend Kira, who turned him into the luckiest bastard in the whole world.”

“Can't dispute that,” Scott says and gives Derek a wide smile. He seems to be the sunny and easygoing kind. The woman next to him smiles at Derek almost shyly, but Derek wouldn't be surprised if she turned out to be as fierce as Laura. Still waters run deep, and some moreso than others. Scott and Kira's scents speak of years of closeness and intimacy, both physical and emotional; the single fragrant strands are intertwined so closely they seem inseparable. One fabric. Derek has always admired that type of commitment, that level of compatibility. Envied it too, if he's honest.

“Nice to meet you,” Derek says and graces them with one of his rare genuine smiles. Whoever's friends with Stiles is good in his book.

“Nice to meet you too, man!” Scott exclaims. He reminds Derek of an overexcited puppy, with the bouncy energy and easy affection, and it's a thought that makes him bite back another smile.

“So you're _Derek_ ,” Scott says.

“Yeah,” Derek confirms, arching one eyebrow ever so slightly. That's a whole lot of emphasis for two syllables.

“Dude! We heard so much about you.”

“So _much_ ,” Kira agrees.

They both look faintly starstruck, as if they're seconds away from whipping out their phones and taking a picture him.

Derek furrows his eyebrows, which Stiles has come to term his _universal expression of canine disconcert and confusion_. “Really?” Derek asks. “What did you hear?”

“Haha, nothing. _They heard nothing_ ,” Stiles says with fake cheerfulness and grips Scott firmly by the shoulder, steering him away from the counter and towards an empty table. “We should stop harassing you and let you work.”

Kira and Scott look disappointed. Derek is quick to assure them that he doesn't feel harassed at all.

“He's only saying that to be polite,” Stiles claims, the little shit.

“Idiot,” Derek retorts and throws a little cocktail umbrella at him.

“See! That's how I'm treated here!”

“Truly appalling, bro,” Scott says and winks at Derek, mouthing a mute 'idiot’.

“I saw that,” Stiles grumbles, but he's placated when Scott rakes his fingers through his hair and leaves the soft strands standing up in every direction.

The shift is much more enjoyable now that Stiles and his friends are around and the sound of their laughter is frequently carried over. Derek listens. Maybe he should feel bad about tuning in like that, about immersing himself in the ebb and flow of their conversation, but he figures it's okay given the public setting. And besides, Stiles still owes him for that extended period of creepy shifter stalking (they really should talk about that, come to think of it). Derek learns that Scott goes to vet school while Kira is undecided whether she wants to pursue another degree in history or work full-time in that fancy art gallery where she's been helping out. They all went to high school together. Sometimes names pop up that Derek recognizes – Harris, that maniac Finstock – and he's reminded of his own experiences, which seem a lifetime ago now. His family were still alive when he went to high school. He worried about exams and sport, fought with his siblings and parents, hung out with his friends and sneaked around with dates, and was generally so caught up in the busyness of everyday life that he forgot to stop once in a while and appreciate what he had.

Scott and Kira don't stay long. Two rounds of beer and then they trudge over and make their farewells.

“Sorry,” Kira, says. “We had the worst flight connections, we can barely keep our eyes open.”

“I'm not sure if they're tired of if they're _tired_ ,” Stiles muses and waggles his eyebrows. It shouldn't look endearing, but with the way he's helplessly uncoordinated and apparently incapable of synchronized eyebrow movements, it sure does. Derek feels a tiny burst of warmth blossom in his chest. This is _bad news_.

Kira hits Stiles' arm and huffs, “you're the _worst_ ,” but she doesn't deny the accusations, and there's a gleam in her eyes that's positively wicked.

“We're gonna be here for two weeks,” Scott says and then suggests with a hopeful smile, “how about we all hang out some time?” Derek finds himself agreeing surprisingly quickly given his usually reclusive ways. But maybe it's not even that surprising. Scott and Kira seem like genuinely nice people. His instincts rarely fool him (they didn't even back then, with Kate – he'd just ignored his gut feeling until it was too late). And maybe he can wheedle incriminating information about Stiles out of Scott and Kira. It's painfully obvious that he needs some leveraging material, and _quick_ at that.

To Derek's surprise, Stiles still lingers after his friends said goodbye. “Do you have the closing shift?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to keep you company?”

Derek ducks his head to hide his pleased smile. He shrugs inarticulately. “Sure. If you want to.”

“Absolutely! There are some cocktails on the menu that positively scream my name.”

“That might be latent alcoholism speaking.”

“Excuse you? Lies and slander!”

And so Stiles props himself up on a bar stool and sips some cocktails, chatting with Derek when he can spare the time, or with Kaja or Jen when they're available. At some point Stiles and Jen get into an argument about whose bad jokes are funnier, and they end up making a bet who can make Derek smile first.

Derek groans. “ _Please_ leave me out of this.”

“No way, Hale. You're like the ultimate litmus test.” Jen ponders something for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. Then: “What did the wall say to the ceiling?”

Stiles and Derek look at her blankly.

“I'll meet you at the corner!”

Derek groans again, even more heartfelt, while Stiles chuckles with delight. “What did the shoes say to the pants?” he says.

Silence.

“SUP, BRITCHES!”

Stiles and Jen laugh like braying donkeys.

It's terrible.

Derek is _in hell._

He watches the two banter back and forth between them, although 'banter' is really a generous description for what they're doing. Derek rolls his eyes so often and hard he might just strain something, werewolf healing or not.

“How much does a hipster weigh?” Stiles asks after a string of similarly flat jokes.

“Dave could tell us,” Jen reckons and gestures towards Dave, a regular who's in the middle of taking a picture of his cocktail and looks intensely focused on the task. He looks up when he hears his name and mutters an offended, “hey!”

“ _An instagram_ ,” Stiles says.

Derek chuckles.

He immediately realizes his mistake as Jen and Stiles gasp and turn to look at him. “Incredible, did you hear that?” Jen asks. “I believe that was a vocalization of amusement!”

Stiles and Jen high-five each other. Derek considers throwing a dirty rag at them.

To add insult to injury, Jen mixes a garishly colorful cocktail for Stiles and lets it slide across the counter, right into Stiles' hand. “To the victor, go the spoils!”

“Thank you, Jen. You might just be the love of my life.”

“Don't let my girlfriend hear that.”

“Well, the course of true love never did run smooth. It'll have to be secret affair.”

“I'll consider it, Stilinski.”

Stiles takes sips from his cocktail and observes his surroundings. After a while he rummages in his backpack and retrieves a notebook.

“You keep a notebook?” Derek asks. “A handwritten one?”

“It's smarter than keeping everything on a smartphone,” Stiles counters, flickering open a page. “Some information is sensitive.”

“Like your shopping list?” Derek asks dryly.

“Exactly, that's a state secret,” Stiles responds with a narrowed look.

“Of course, what was I thinking. I've heard the Stilinskis defend their prized pierogi recipes with all they have.”

Stiles hums faintly, agreeing. “People have died for that recipe.”

“As long as no one died from it. I mean, the last time you cooked for us...”

“ _Ha ha_ ,” Stiles says with no small amount of bruised pride. “You think you're so funny, hm?”

“You got it. I'm a riot.”

“Hardly.” Stiles sniffs. “At most a Canadian one.”

“Don't insult Canadians!” Jen cries from the other end of the counter. “I'll ban you!”

“You can't ban me, that's Kaja's domain! And I was insulting Derek, not Canadians!”

“Oh. Okay. That's fine then.”

Derek sighs, long-suffering. “Traitors. Traitors all around.”

Stiles smirks and begins to sketching something into that notebook, shielding the drawing from Derek's curious eyes.

When Stiles is finished, Derek looks at a cartoon wolf that crosses his arms in front of his chest and exclaims it's _allergic to fun._  
  


  
[](http://postimage.org/)  
  
  


Derek furrows his eyebrows, unwittingly mimicking the bushy caterpillar eyebrows on that wolf. “ _Ha ha_. Funny.”

“You're only proving my point,” Stiles says snidely.

For a brief moment, Derek imagines how he could shut up that clever mouth – how he'd pin Stiles to the counter, lean in and steal the breath from those soft-looking lips, how he'd make Stiles gasp and surge up, melt into the contact and clutch at Derek's shirt, demanding _more_ – but the daydream evaporates quickly and leaves nothing but embarrassment behind. He sighs. “Laura is probably going to hang that on the fridge. She'll love it.”

“Cool!” Stiles looks pleased. “I've got more where that is coming from. I could even make a comic or something.”

“Oh joy.”

Jen scuttles over to see what the commotion is about and Derek feels suddenly protective of the drawing. Maybe it's because of their latest hunter encounter. No regular person would ever look at that drawing and associate the wolf figure with a werewolf, but if an unfortunate nickname sticks – _wolf boy, beast, big bad_ – there might be some more trouble further down the road.

But Jen doesn't even comment on the drawing. Her features remain blank as she studies the sketch, and then someone wants a refill of his beer and calls her over.

The next hour is pretty uneventful, all things considered.

And then Derek gets hit on.

A few days ago, Kaja told Derek that they actually gained customers after he was hired, or at least some curious souls who needed to check out that _really hot bartender_ in that gay bar on Marshall Street. His latest horror story had been a bachelorette party where the bride-to-be had been drunk and come close to violating public decency laws. When her other attempts at seduction had failed spectacularly, she ended up asking Derek directly if he was gay and added in the same breath, “if you're only into the backdoor stuff, I can roll with that.” Unfortunately, she'd gotten butthurt when he'd declined that offer, and had been kicked out after throwing a temper tantrum.

It hadn't been pretty.

This time it's a cute blond guy who's probably home from college, and who tells Derek with an endearing little smile, “you've got _really_ beautiful eyes.” The guy huffs a laugh and angles his head in a display of embarrassment. “I'm sure you hear this all the time, and it's such a cliché things to say, but yours are truly extraordinary.”

“Thanks,” Derek says, because there's no reason to be outright rude if the come-on isn't sleazy.

“I can't even say what color they are.” The guy rests his chin on his hand and studies Derek's face. “Depending on the light, they're like... blueish, greenish... Brown? Amber? You got a full rainbow of colors there.”

“Mostly green,” Derek says while he rinses a glass. “At least that's what my driver's license says, so I'm going with it.”

The guy asks him out. Nicely. Respectfully. It's more than most people do, especially if they're inebriated, so Derek declines as politely as he can. The guy nods bravely and then broadcasts a scent of sour disappointment, but hey, that's life. Can't please everyone.

When Derek looks at Stiles, he finds him looking as blank as a slate. “That probably happens often, right?” Stiles asks.

“Fairly often,” Derek agrees.

“ _Your eyes are extraordinary_ ,” Stiles mimics disdainfully, more to himself than Derek. “God, what a _cheap_ come on. _Tacky_.”

Derek shakes his head. “Nah, that was a classy approach as far as I'm concerned. His first comment was about my ass, so...”

Stiles looks shocked. “Uggh,” he exclaims. “ _Humanity_. What the hell.”

“You're surprised people hit on other people in a bar setting?”

“This is your workplace!”

“I can't argue with that,” Derek says, grinning. “And yet I get the feeling you're jealous the same thing doesn't happen to you.”

“Excuse me?” Stiles looks mortally offended. “I'll have you know that there are some elderly ladies that have called me – repeatedly, I might add – _a very handsome young gentleman.”_

“Okay,” Derek concedes with a lopsided, wry grin. “I take everything back.”

“You better,” Stiles huffs.

When Derek closes the bar, Stiles is right there with him. He's as wobbly on his legs as a newborn colt, so Derek has to put an arm across his shoulders to steady him. “Let's get you home. You're in no state to drive.”

Stiles burrows into Derek's side and mumbles something that even Derek's keen werewolf ears can't pick up, no matter how much he tries. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome. 
> 
> You can find me [here](http://septima-sum.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> Here's the translation of the Polish lines:
> 
> Stiles: “Sorry, dollars? I don't understand!“  
> Derek: “You can't switch languages every time it's convenient for you. That's rude.”  
> Derek: “I do. A bit.“


	3. Chapter 3

  
  
  


_So. I had it all figured out._

_This fic was going to end with chapter three, in which Derek and Stiles would be getting together, but that’s not where the story would end._

_Next, I wanted to post a fic in which Laura, Derek, and Stiles attend a werewolf conference and try to reconnect with the other clans, make allies in the process, and overall assert themselves. This is by no means be an easy feat – they’re a tiny pack who hold a large, attractive territory, and that’s not even factoring in that a giant pack from Oregon has been expanding their territory as if they’re on a mission. The atmosphere at the conference is tense and hostile as a result (lots of werewolf politics!), and Laura and Derek are unsure whether their attempts at asserting themselves work._

_At the end of the chapter, Stiles gets kidnapped._

_This kicks off the main fic. Stiles has amnesia. He’s at a remote location in an old, stately building. He can’t remember how he got there or what happened. There’s a woman, a housekeeper – a kind, grandmotherly type who treats him well, but doesn’t tell him what he wishes to know and forbids him from entering the basement level. Stiles wants to trust her but doesn’t; all his instincts scream that something is fundamentally _wrong_ with her._

_Meanwhile, Derek and Laura frantically try to find out what happened to Stiles. They team up with Scott and the others and start a rescue mission._

_I wanted this fic to have a fairy tale-like quality, and with that I mean I wanted it to be dark and unsettling. The plot was loosely based on Bluebeard’s Wife, which is one of the creepiest folktales in existence (and even more so if you look at the motivation behind the folktale, but I digress). The fic was supposed to be about exploring Stiles’ identity and his abilities as a wereraven, especially his powers of creating illusions to manipulate others, which he once learned from Claudia but has been forbidden from using ever since his early childhood (not that that truly stopped him)._

“What's the hardest currency to earn and the easiest to spend, Prszemislaw?” his mother had asked and brushed an errand strand from his forehead. 

“Trust,” he'd answered sleepily a hundred years ago, in a different lifetime. 

_I had a couple of red herrings planned to make the reader (mis)guess who’s behind the kidnapping, and the plot of the main fic would have tied neatly into the interlude fic and would have explained why the large Oregon pack expanded so rapidly and aggressively._

_As you can tell, I never got around to writing this story, and perhaps that’s no major loss because it would have been a MAMMOTH project and wouldn’t have been very ship-heavy (what with Stiles and Derek being separated for most of the plot). Also, it sounds hard to pull off and possibly very convoluted, lol._

_Anyway… I’m sorry for never properly finishing this fic._

_Here’s a picture I made for the third chapter. Just imagine Stiles and Derek living happily ever after._

  
[   
](https://postimg.org/image/bkjzkbuz5/)

Just for your information, I might revisit the wereraven theme in future stories. 

And if you’ve subscribed to my a/b/o escort fic, I’m still planning to finish that one! It hasn’t been abandoned. 

  
  
  



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